Delirium
by Fair-Ithil
Summary: He calls after the dead and she can give no answer...


**Disclaimer: Not Tolkien blah blah blah don't own it.**

**A/N:** Because maybe Faramir was the one with the major issues in the marriage…

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**I**

She fears he is lost to her.

Daily she watches as he struggles, finding no comfort within his own skin, displaced (there is no other word for him now). He performs his tasks thoroughly, always ready to do what he must for Gondor, but his mind strays often, and she sees the emptiness of his eyes, the distantness in the air about him.

He lingers inside his mind, accompanied by shadows and phantoms only he understands. This change in him has creped in swiftly, and she finds herself cursing the House of the Stewards. She watches him slip further from her, back into the past with a father who could not value him, a mother who would not stay, a brother who abandoned him. She fears it has consumed him.

"Husband," She calls from the window as he walks the sleeping gardens in the deep of winter, her mantle clutched close to keep away the chill, " Come in, let the fire warm you."

He looks at her with clouded eyes and, like glass, her heart breaks smoothly.

The night grows on and he does not come.

**II**

She wakes to find him besides her, his back to her, and she moves closer to him, pressing her face into his raven hair. It is for these simple mornings that she lives for, for the feel of his sleeping form pressed against her, the quiet of the morning acting like a sort of tranquility neither can find outside the walls of their chamber. She sighs and drapes her arm around him.

His skin is damp and she grows worried, sitting up to roll him on his back.

His brow burns and his eyes gleam maddeningly. Coughs rack his body and she sends for the healers, leaving his side to fetch water to cool his flesh. His breathing is an unsteady rasp that echoes in the quiet of the morning, filling her with dread.

"Faramir." She whispers, pressing the damp clothe to his brow, "Oh, Faramir."

But his eyes close and he does not hear her.

**III**

His fever increases as the day drags on and she tends to him with steady hands and hopeful whispers. The healers can do nothing to sooth him, and she fears she will chew her lip to ribbons when they suggest the king be sent for. 'It is more than fever, Lady.' One of the healers informs her in the antechamber when she is sent from her Lord's side. 'There is darkness in his eyes.'

She makes no agreement and worries her hands, eyes glancing at the closed door

She does not wish to startle the people, nor bother the king but she cannot deny the dark glimmer in her husband's fevered eyes, the persistent melancholy that has accompanied him since their trip to the city earlier in the year. A sadness she could not rid him of anymore than she can banish the heat from his skin or the specters from his mind. The past hold to him too strongly.

Or perhaps, she thinks with a sickening wrench beneath her breast, he clings to it.

**IV**

She sits by his side at night, reading from one of the many tomes that grace the shelves of their chamber, the words massacred on her tongue, their ancient beauty lost as she stumbles through the year worn pages.

It does not matter, and she knows this, for he lingers on a different plane, returning to her only in brief lapses of delirium. He calls after the dead and she can give no answer.

'Mother,' He chokes, reaching blindly for her. 'Do not leave.' She takes his hand and grips it tightly, holds it to her. 'Do you not know me husband?' She all but weeps, her hand shaking. 'Will you not remember my name? Or do you wait? Will you call for me when I too am gone and cannot answer you?'

She weeps into his hand. She sends a message to the king before night is spent.

**V**

She thought she loved him once, when she was a young maid and he the noble ranger from the north.

She knows now that was a dream, that her love for him was little more than admiration and desperation, a potent mixture that clouded her mind. She watches from afar as he places his hand against her Lord's brow, watches him grimace and shake his head. He whispers to her husband in the elven tongue, the words heavy with sorrow.

She is asked to wait outside once more and she does so reluctantly. Something like fear slithers in the pit of her stomach. '_If he should die…_' She shivers and draws closer to the fire, not wanting to think of the unhappy creature she was before.

She loves him, she knows this with no lack of certainty. She loves her husband as he loves her but she knows too well the power of longing, the strength of regret, guilt. She would that she could spare him this, or at the least bear the weight of his suffering with him but he does not take her help, does not allow her in.

In this life, she is not the one in the cage.

**VI**

The king exits the room as the sun sets and tells her softly that her lord will recover. He is tired and she can see the lines about his eyes clearly, he is pallor and his brow is knotted.

She sees to it that he is well looked after, thanking him whole heartedly, kissing his hands before he can stop her. 'The hands of the king…' She recites, leading him to his chamber, where she tells him to rest. He smiles kindly at her and touches the crown of her head with his lips. 'I did not wish to see you in such distress, though my heart is glad that you have not too slipped from this world.'

She frowns at this and he continues 'Many are the scars you carry, Lady of Ithilien, many are the woes you suffer but it was not you who I was sent to heal.'

'No woe, my King, I suffer nothing here, only that my lord suffers and I can do nothing to help him. It seems as though I have healed with time but he—there are times when he is not the man I married.'

'To think that two people, so honorable and noble, should be plagued with such burdens grieves me. There are some hurts run too deep to ever truly heal, and I cannot promise you he will not fall again, for I am not gifted so. Do not fear, Lady, but lo! Hold to hope.'

She bent her head and fought the tears that loomed in her eyes.

'He longs for those he cannot have save in death. What hope have I against the plight of memories which do not age or tarnish? Indeed I fear I will lose him. I cannot be what he needs…I fear I do not have the strength. How am I to save him then?'

'With love Lady.'

She returns to her chamber and watches her husband sleep.

**VII**

She wakes to the sight of him sitting up right, grey eyes staring at her as though she were something new and unknown.

'I do not wish to call for you only when you cannot answer.' He says simply, his voice grave and eyes bright.

She reaches from him and he holds her against him with careful hands.

**End**


End file.
